In the aftermath of nine devastating plagues that ravaged ancient Egypt, a high priestess desperately seeks to prevent the impending tenth plague. Still, her efforts fail, leaving her at the mercy of an enraged pharaoh. Meanwhile, the pharaoh's son...
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Ramesses sat at the base of his bed with a goblet of wine in his right hand. He had finished a jug earlier and was down to the second. He preferred wine to beer. Wine felt smoother and had a more potent numbing effect; it was the only thing that could build a wall between his sanity and the high tide of grief pressing in.
"Leave. All of you!" Ramesses yelled at the servants and glared at their fleeing backs. He carelessly poured more wine into his cup, causing a healthy amount to splash on the floor.
"I am not broken...I am not broken...I am not broken," Ramesses chanted the words, repeating them over and over.
Staggering to his feet, Ramesses stared at the wall in front of him. Having the priestess in his custody did nothing to soothe his grief. No matter how vivid his imagination of torturing her was, he was still unable to get relief from his pain.
"Maybe when I watch her suffer...maybe."
He shifted his attention to the cup in his hand, swirling its content, trying to think. All he saw were his dead sons, all he heard was the wailing—the ceaseless piercing wailing. It was torture.
"You killed your sons, Ramesses. You did. If you had just let them go..."
Ramesses gritted his teeth at the memory of Nefertari's accusation. She was right in some way. It was his stubbornness and pride that brought this storm of death to Egypt. Groaning, Ramesses returned to his sitting position on the floor. He rested his back against the bed frame, shut his eyes and sighed.
Why wouldn't the sound of the wailing leave his head? Even the stupid wine could not drown out its torment. With a roar, he flung the goblet. Crimson liquid splashed against the wall, staining the white curtain.
"Is this what you want? To bring me to my knees?" Ramesses screamed at the ceiling, rage and agony causing his eyes to sting and water.
"You did not win. Do you hear me? Whoever you are, you have not won!" Spittle flew with the fierce words.
"I am not broken." Ramesses wailed as he pounded the floor with a fist. Tears blurred his vision and tracked down his face.
My sons. Oh, my sons. May your ka find peace in Duat. May you...
"I am not broken..." Ramesses whispered even as his entire frame shook with the force of his weeping. And he wept and wept until sleep took him.
***
"Ramesses." A voice hissed, drawing Ramesses from the haze of unconsciousness.
Blinking, Ramesses took in the view of what he knew to be one of Ra's abandoned temples in Old Gaza. Pillars lay broken on the floor, vines climbed over rubbles and mapped crumbled walls. Where was the roof?
"Ramesses," the hissing voice said again.
Ramesses whipped around, trying and failing to catch a glimpse of who was speaking.
